


warming your bones

by voidfins



Series: light of day [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:30:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidfins/pseuds/voidfins
Summary: Aramis says that D'Artagnan has bad luck. He's beginning to agree.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spin-off of a larger story I'm writing that hasn't been posted yet. It's a modern AU set in Canada, and the team is a special crimes unit. Just as a disclaimer, I'm not Canadian and I don't really have any experience with police work other than tv shows. I hope you enjoy this anyway!

D’Artagnan felt like he was melting. He was pretty sure that people couldn’t actually melt, but right now he would swear in a court of law that it was happening. Aramis had told him the other day that he had terrible luck, and it was starting to look like he was right. At this point, d’Artagnan might even venture a guess that someone, somewhere, had cursed his family tree so that stupid shit happened at the most inopportune times. Then again, he’d never had this many problems before joining the SCU team, so maybe it was them.  


Regardless, the bad luck had hit hard today.

*****

It was the height of summer, and none of them had really wanted to leave their air-conditioned office. D’Artagnan had quickly figured out that the heat made Athos irritable, and that he burned easily. He had also learned not to bring it up after one particularly memorable incident when their team leader had even had a burn shaped like sunglasses on his face. Porthos didn’t seem to mind it, and Aramis just took a lot of cat naps during the afternoon, when he thought no one was watching. Or he knew and just didn’t care; that was more his style. D’Artagnan liked summer. He liked the sunshine and being outside and the long, long days.  


So when they had been called in to assist on a an op to take out a ring of gun runners in Saskatchewan, he was the first one out the door. Local law enforcement had seemed grateful for their help for once, although he thought that wrapping the case up quickly so that they wouldn’t have to go chasing leads anymore might have more to do with it than the spirit of teamwork. He had accompanied an Officer Roy to follow up on a report of suspicious activity at a shipping yard.  


That, of course, was when everything went south.  


Not only was there definitely suspicious activity, but one of the clerks was apparently working with the ring and contacted them when he and Roy showed up asking questions. He’d pointed them to a container away from the office where his buddies had been waiting to ambush them. He’d been forced to duck into an open container to avoid the bullets flying everywhere, He’d lost Roy somewhere, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. D’Artagnan had tried to run out of the container, but another round of firing pinged off the metal around him, one of the shots grazing his shoulder. He’d had no choice but to fall back.  


Then someone had slammed the door shut. He had stood, gun raised, waiting for them to open it again and come at him. They had him cornered. He could feel his pulse pounding and blood from the graze soaking his sleeve. But instead of the creak of the door opening, there was the click of a padlock. That was when he knew he was really fucked.  


The fight had been mid morning, from what he could tell from his watch. His phone was functioning, but the metal container blocked the signal. He couldn’t make any calls. He didn’t know how close he was to the car—it had been a game of cat and mouse, and he’d covered some ground while trying not to get shot. As near as he could tell, they must have decided that it was easier to just leave him locked in than to try to shoot him. For now, anyway. He wondered what had happened to Roy. The guy had seemed nice enough. Athos would start to worry, when he didn’t check in on time. He was confident that they would find him.  


What he didn’t count on was the heat. The shipping yard, like all others he’d been to, was out in the open with no shade. The containers were metal. He knew this, logically, but he’d never had occasion to consider how hot it actually got inside them during what the news had been calling a record breaking heatwave. The temperatures had already been on the rise when they’d arrived, and it was getting to the hottest part of the day now. That would be his bad luck kicking in again.  


The walls had quickly become too warm to touch, so now he was sprawled on the floor in the center of the box while the time ticked by. It was a terrible position to be caught in if the gun runners came back, but he was convinced at this point they wouldn’t. They had probably cleared out. Besides, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to fight them off if they did.  


His headache had grown gradually, evolving into a throbbing that made his vision spark. Unfortunately the dizziness was sudden. That was the other part of why he was laying on the floor. D’Artagnan knew enough about first aid to recognize the signs of impending heat stroke, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He didn’t even have any water with him, and his early investigation of the few crates in the container revealed that they contained, of all things, blenders. The only thing he had going for him right now was that the wound on his arm was shallow and had stopped bleeding pretty quickly.  


D’Artagnan closed his eyes, trying to ignore the searing heat of the corrugated metal beneath him. There were ventilation holes high in the walls, but they were so small that he didn’t think they were very effective. Breathing was becoming harder. It was like the heat was pushing all of the oxygen out.  


All he could do was wait.

*****

D’Artagnan had been drifting for an interminable amount of time. He didn’t have the energy to check his watch. He barely had the energy to concentrate on breathing. So when something changed, it took him a few minutes to realize it.  


There was something outside that sounded vaguely like shouting. The lock on the door rattled. He muddled through the thought that he really didn’t want it to be the same criminals from earlier when the door was thrown open and he had to close his eyes against the sudden assault of bright light.  


“D’Artagnan!” That voice was as familiar to him as his own, but the name wouldn’t take shape in his brain. The figure knelt beside him in a rush and put a hand to his neck; it was blessedly cool. “Porthos!” it bellowed. “I found him!”  


There were more pounding feet and murmuring that he didn’t even try to follow. A hand brushed the hair out of his face. He forced his eyes open a crack to see what was happening.  


“Athos,” someone else said—that was it! That was the name—in a voice that sounded like forced calm, “look. He’s still conscious.”  


“Help me,” Athos commanded.  


D’Artagnan must have lost some time when they carried him outside, because the next thing he knew he was laying across the backseat of an SUV with a dull rushing sound in his ears and Athos leaning over him.  


“D’Artagnan?” Athos said, seeing him shift. He wanted to answer, but nothing was cooperating. “What’s the ETA on that ambulance?” Athos asked, but he was talking to someone else.  


“A few more minutes,” someone replied. “The damn place is like a maze.”  


“Damn it,” Athos muttered. “He’s not sweating, and his breathing is too shallow.”  


“Here,” the same someone said. That was followed by a wet cloth laid gently on his forehead. It felt startlingly cold. He could hear sirens now, distantly, and Athos still talking above him, but the words turned into nonsense and faded into nothing.

*****  


The first thing he noticed was that he still had a headache. The second thing was the beeping, which didn’t help the first thing. He desperately wanted to ignore them both, but now that he was aware of them he couldn’t. Instead, he pried open his eyes to assess the situation.  


He knew it was a hospital. If the studied blankness of the room hadn’t tipped him off, the stiffness of the sheets beneath his fingers would have. He swore they starched the damn things. The beeping was coming from a heart monitor beside the bed. How could he turn it off without moving?  


“D’Artagnan?” He rolled his head to the other side to see Athos sitting in a chair beside the bed. The older man smiled at him. “Finally. I thought you were going to keep us waiting all night.”  


“What happened?” D’Artagnan managed to croak. His mouth was drier than the desert. Athos reached for a cup of ice chips on the table, giving him a few before answering.  


“Heatstroke. That container you were locked in was basically a metal oven.”  


“Yeah.” He agreed with that whole-heartedly. “The others?”  


“Getting coffee,” Athos told him. “Porthos doesn’t sit still well in hospitals.”  


There was something still bothering D’Artagnan, but every time he tried to remember what it was it evaded him. Instead he asked: “Did you get them?”  


“The gun runners?” Athos said. “Yes. After you didn’t check in, we caught the clerk trying to erase all evidence of his collusion, and...convinced him to tell us what he knew. Local law enforcement made the bust while we searched for you.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. The missing piece finally clicked in D’Artagnan’s head, and he struggled to sit up.  


“What about Roy?” he asked. Athos pushed him back against the pillows and hit the button to raise the head of the bed.  


“He was shot and lost a lot of blood, but he’ll make it. They must have thought he was dead. He’s a couple rooms down.”  


D’Artagnan sagged in relief. “Good.”  


Porthos and Aramis chose that moment to return.  


“D’Artagnan!” Aramis exclaimed. He swatted Athos on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell us he was awake?” Athos just rolled his eyes.  


“Hey,” D’Artagnan greeted them as Aramis bustled over to the other side of the bed and began checking his IV, even though he was pretty sure he hadn’t managed to knock it loose in the five minutes he’d been conscious.  


“How are you feeling?” Porthos asked. “Gave us a scare.”  


“Headache,” he admitted. “Sorry.”  


Aramis looked up. “I’ll bet. Part of that’s from the dehydration. It’ll go away with rest and fluids.”  


“And you have nothing to be sorry for,” Athos said firmly. “It was a bad situation all around.”  


“Although you’ll be lucky if Athos lets you out of his sight for a week,” Aramis added.  


“A week?” Porthos snorted. “Try a month.”  


D’Artagnan smiled as they argued. His team had found him—they always did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was originally only going to be a one shot, but it got away from me.

Athos tapped his pen against the table, trying not to look at the clock for the billionth time that afternoon.  


“What is it?” Aramis asked, dropping into the chair next to him. “You only have that look when someone is about to get a piece of your mind. Or arrested. Or hasn’t filed their paperwork.”  


“Or gotten your coffee order wrong,” Porthos chimed in from his other side. Normally Athos would either ignore them or snark back, but he had a creeping feeling that something was dreadfully wrong and he couldn’t shake it.  


“D’Artagnan hasn’t checked in,” he said. There was a pause as his teammates gave each other a look over his head.  


“He probably got distracted chatting the ear off that local guyi who went with him,” Porthos suggested. “Have you tried calling him?”  


“Of course I have,” Athos said, barely managing not to snap. “It goes straight to voicemail.”  


“Get someone to radio the officer,” Aramis suggested. Athos was about to retort when the idea actually registered with him. He got up with a huff and picked an officer at random.  


“Do you know who went to the shipping yard with my team member?” he asked, as politely as he could. The man looked up at him, startled.  


“Pretty sure that was Roy,” he said.  


“Ah,” said Athos. “Could you radio him? I’m trying to contact D’Artagnan but he isn’t picking up the phone.”  


The officer—Reid, according to his name tag—shrugged and reached for his radio, hailing Roy.  


There was no response. Only static. Frowning, he tried again, with the same result. Athos’ bad feeling had ratcheted up to full blown klaxon alarms, but he forced his expression to remain neutral.  


“Anyway you can see where they’re at?” he asked. Reid, now also looking mildly alarmed, got up. Athos trailed him over to dispatch and watched as they traced the squad car’s GPS system.  


“They’re still at the shipping yard,” Reid informed him, leaning over the dispatcher’s shoulder. Athos spun on his heel and walked back to where Aramis and Porthos had been following the whole exchange.  


“Something’s wrong,” he told them. “Neither of them are answering, and the squad car is still at the shipping yard. We’re going.” The two of them started gathering their things. Athos turned around to find the Commissioner standing behind him.  


“Reid told me what’s happening,” he said without preamble. “I’d like you to take him with you. It’ll be easier to contact us if you need back-up.”  


Athos had admired the man’s polite professionalism from the first time he’d met him, and he didn’t want to waste time arguing what was actually a good point, so he just nodded and said: “We’ll let you know what we find.”

*****

What they found was a weasel-faced man who was trying to delete documents off a computer when they walked in.Athos would have pegged him for guilty from the excessive sweating in the air-conditioned office, but the scramble to run when he saw them was also a dead giveaway.  


“Anything?” Athos asked as Porthos sifted through the hard drive.  


“Everything,” he snorted. He looked over at the clerk, who was on the verge of blubbering. “You do know you just sent everything to the recycling bin, right?”  


“Porthos,” Athos said impatiently.  


“Got records here incriminating him and a bunch of others. The judge should be very happy.”  


Appeased, Athos turned to face the clerk. Aramis was standing behind him with one hand on his shoulder looking vaguely amused, but the man himself looked ready to pass out.  


“The two officers who were here this morning,” Athos started. “Where are they?” D’Artagnan wasn’t a local officer, but he didn’t think it was important to differentiate now.  


“They left,” the man said, his voice wavering. The lie was so transparent that Athos couldn’t help rolling his eyes. He leaned over the man and lowered his voice.  


“There’s two ways this can go down, and one of them is much more unpleasant.”  


The yard foreman, who’d been standing in the corner beside Reid with his arms crossed, made a noise of disgust. “For god’s sake, Jerry,” he said. “You’re already in it up to your eyeballs. Just tell the man.”  


Jerry gaped like a fish. “They were here,” he started. Athos had to bite his tongue so he wouldn’t interrupt. “But they left. I don’t know where they went.”  


“Their car is still here somewhere,” Athos said. “Don’t lie to me again.” Jerry looked up at him and evidently saw something convincing.  


“I called him,” he said, voice wavering. “I called Johnson.”  


“Who’s Johnson?” Athos asked.  


“He’s...he’s in charge. Of the whole operation.” Athos made a note of them name. “I sent the cops on a wild goose chase and then called him. He said he’d take care of it!”  


“Where?” Athos growled, trying to push down a spike of worry. Take care of it.  


“The northeast corner of the yard. It’s mostly long-term storage there,” Jerry said, cowering in his chair. Athos straightened up and turned to Reid.  


“I need you to call your commissioner and tell him what’s happening. Take this,” he threw a disdainful glance at the clerk, “back to the station. You’ll probably be able to get more details out of him.” Reid nodded and stepped out of the room, presumably to call in. Athos looked at the foreman. “Are there cameras?”  


The man shook his head. “Technically yes, but they’ve been on the fritz for…” He looked at Jerry with a start. “Six weeks. Since Jerry started.”  


It figured. Athos didn’t waste time questioning the man on why on earth he wouldn’t get his cameras fixed for that long. The more he heard the more he knew they had to move fast. He had the foreman point them in the right direction and beckoned Porthos and Aramis to follow him.

*****

The yard was frustratingly large. Even having it narrowed down to a quarter of the size didn’t help much, and the stacks of containers cut way down on visibility.  


“Athos,” Aramis called, waving at him before disappearing again. Athos jogged over to see him checking over a police cruiser.  


“Anything?” he asked. Aramis pointed to the side of the car: bullet holes, and spent shells on the ground.  


“Call it in,” Athos told him. He looked around with a critical eye, trying to determine which way to go. The sun was creeping overhead and it was downright miserable surrounded by asphalt and metal. He should have worn sunscreen. He drew his gun and made his way down one of the rows. It wasn’t likely any of the ring was going to still be there, but he preferred to err on the side of caution.  


He almost tripped Roy after turning a corner. At first he thought the man was dead—there was so much blood—but when he checked there was a pulse. Porthos came running when he shouted for him.  


“Call an ambulance,” he ordered, putting pressure on the bullet wounds. He was determined to keep the man alive, but there was another question on his mind: where was D’Artagnan?

*****

The paramedics had whisked Roy away to the hospital, leaving Athos standing with blood on his hands. He gave himself a mental shake and turned back to the task at hand.  


“Any luck?” He asked his teammates. They shook their heads.  


“Found more shells and blood spatter, but nothing else,” Aramis reported. Athos swiped  


at his forehead with the back of his sleeve, trying to get the sweat out of his eyes and tried to think of what their youngest would do when outnumbered and without back-up. He looked up at the foreman, who had helped direct the ambulance to their location.  


“Are any of these containers ever left open?” he asked abruptly.  


“Not usually,” the man said, “not unless we have a client ask us to check on their items.”  


“Or criminals are offloading illegal goods,” Porthos pointed out.  


“You think D’Artagnan may have gotten backed into one?” Aramis asked.  


“It’s possible,” Athos said. He didn’t want to consider the worse alternatives. “We need to start checking them.”  


The foreman hurried to get a couple of pairs of bolt cutters from the back of his truck, handing them over. They worked systematically, checking the containers in a grid starting closest to the police cruiser, but it was slow going and Athos quickly got frustrated. They didn’t know how far D’Artagnan might have gotten, or even if his hunch was correct. Athos cut the next bolt with more than the necessary amount of violence. They had spread out to cover more ground, so he forced the door open on his own.  


The harsh afternoon light flooded in, and he caught his breath as it revealed a figure.  


“D’Artagnan!” he cried, stumbling forward and kneeling beside his teammate’s prone form. He’d thought the heat outside was bad, but inside the container it was so thick that it was like walking into a brick wall. He willed his hand not to shake and checked for a pulse, huffing out a sigh of relief when he found one, even though it was too fast.  


“Porthos!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I found him!” D’Artagnan’s skin under his hand was far too hot, but he wasn’t sweating that he could tell. He knew that was bad. Porthos appeared at a dead sprint a moment later, skidding to a stop beside him.  
“Is he…?” he started.  


“Alive,” Athos confirmed, “but not in good shape.” He’d just noticed the blood soaking D’Artagnan’s sleeve, but it was mostly dry so he didn’t focus on it.  


“Athos,” Porthos cut in, “look. He’s still conscious.” Athos looked down. D’Artagnan’s eyes were barely open, but he didn’t look like he was registering what was happening.  


“Help me,” Athos commanded. He took D’Artagnan’s head and Porthos grabbed his feet. It was a relief to get out into the relatively cooler air. They carried him over to the SUV and laid him across the back seat. Porthos started the car and turned the air conditioner on, already on the phone and calling another ambulance. Aramis had seen them and come running over, taking in the situation in a glance. He started rummaging through the supplies in the back. Athos thought he saw movement and leaned over D’Artagnan, but he didn’t appear to be awake.  


“D’Artagnan?” he said. No response. “What’s the ETA on that ambulance?” he asked Porthos tersely.  


“A few more minutes,” Porthos replied unhappily. “The damn place is like a maze.”  


“Damn it” he muttered. “He’s not sweating, and his breathing is too shallow.”  


“Here,” Aramis said, handing him a piece of gauze he’d soaked with water. Athos laid it on D’Artagnan’s forehead, brushing his hair out of the way. There were sirens in the distance now.  


“What else?” he asked.  


“There’s not much we can do here,” Aramis told him. The ambulance chose that moment to come tearing into view, and Athos was forced to step back as they transferred D’Artagnan to a gurney. He hopped up in the back without waiting for them to ask.  
“We’ll meet you there,” Porthos told him as the doors slammed shut.

*****

Athos sighed and slumped deeper into his chair. It had been several long hours since they had arrived at the hospital. After the frantic rush it had been even worse to be forced to wait until they had news. Porthos and Aramis had been right on the heels of the ambulance, so at least he hadn’t had to wait alone.  


They had eventually put D”Artagnan in a room and let them sit with him. According to the doctor, he was lucky. Much longer and the heat probably would have proved fatal. As it was, they’d had to give him an ice bath and start an IV for fluids, and they wanted to keep him overnight for observation.  


So now Athos was sitting in an uncomfortable hospital chair waiting for him to wake up—and speak of the devil. D’Artagnan shifted slightly, eyes opening. Athos leaned forward.  


“D’Artagnan?” he asked. The man in question looked towards Athos, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Finally. I thought you were going to keep us waiting all night.”  


“What happened?” D’Artagnan asked. Athos had to suppress a wince at how wrecked his voice was. There was a cup of ice on the bedside table, and he gave D’Artagnan a few before answering.  


“Heatstroke,” he summed up. “That container you were locked in was basically a metal oven.”  


“Yeah,” D’Artagnan managed. “The others?”  


“Getting coffee,” Athos told him. “Porthos doesn’t sit still well in hospitals.” He’d had to find something for Porthos to do after he’d started pacing. Aramis hid it better, but he was just as restless.  


“Did you get them?” D’Artagnan croaked. Athos frowned.  


“The gun runners? Yes. After you didn’t check in, we caught the clerk trying to erase all evidence of his collusion, and...convinced him to tell us what he knew. Local law enforcement made the bust while we searched for you.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. Suddenly, D’Artagnan struggled to sit up.  


“What about Roy?” he gasped. Athos was kind of impressed that he got as far up as he did, but he gently pushed him back against the pillows and pressed the button to raise the bed.  


“He was shot and lost a lot of blood, but he’ll make it. They must have thought he was dead. He’s a couple rooms down.” He’d had a feeling that it would come up, so he’d asked the doctor.  


D’Artagnan sagged in relief. “Good.”  


Athos turned as Aramis and Porthos entered the room, and saw them both light up.  


“D’Artagnan!” Aramis exclaimed. He hit Athos on the shoulder. “WHy didn’t you tell us he was awake?” Athos rolled his eyes and said nothing.  


“Hey,” D’Artagnan greeted them, watching Aramis as he made himself busy checking on his IV and the monitor.  


“How are you feeling?” Porthos asked. “Gave us a scare.”  


“Headache,” he admitted. “Sorry.”  


Aramis looked up. “I’ll bet. Part of that’s from the dehydration. It’ll go away with rest and fluids.”  


“And you have nothing to be sorry for,” Athos said firmly. “It was a bad situation all around.” He was going to cut that line of thinking off right now. As bad as it was, it could have been much worse.  


“Although you’ll be lucky if Athos lets you out of his sight for a week,” Aramis added.  


“A week?” Porthos snorted. “Try a month.”  


Athos sat back and watched his team bicker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on the large story that this is connected to! I'd like to do some more one shots, though, so if you have any ideas I'd love to hear them!

**Author's Note:**

> I love reviews!


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